A Lullaby To The Forgotten
by AutomneArcher
Summary: He was a monster. Monsters cannot be loved. There was a long silence between them. Carlisle's voice broke through the air. "You can never know what it is like, for someone like me, to love someone like you." What sort of fate awaits two strangers once their paths have collided? Read to find out. I do NOT own anything. Please R&R :) 3
1. Voice of The Past

_He was a monster. _

_Monsters cannot be loved. _

_There was a long silence between them._

_Carlisle's voice broke through the air._

_"You can never know what it is like, for someone like me, to love someone like you."_

**********

For as long as Esme Platt could remember, the dark was an old friend.

That shapeless and faceless blanket of nothing was her companion. An empty echo in a cave only she could see.

Though in some instances, she was able to see for a few brief moments. Stolen images of time. The strange floating silhouettes of ghosts in dancing lights was nothing out of the ordinary. But then, something would happen, and the diaphanous images would disappear. The dancing lights - gone. The dark would return again. And all that would be left, were the sounds of their memories.

When Esme was a young child, she lived in England, near the vast British countryside. She lived in a large and beautiful home with her mother and father. She could barely remember the events in her early childhood. But if she really needed to remember, it were as if she was looking through an old mirror of the past. The memories were vague and distant, as if the memories themselves belonged to another person entirely.

She was four years old when she lost her sight.

It was a strange thing to think about. On the last day she could still see, she could remember all the details precisely.

She was wearing a pretty white dress. Her hair in doll-like curls as she stepped outside. She could still remember the wind, blowing in from the east.

Her mother had the most exquisite garden. Esme's mother was a nurturing soul, she loved all forms of life. But the flowers were her particular favorite.

There were flowers of all colors, shapes and sizes. Esme felt like she was walking in a dream as she wandered further into the garden; her eyes taking in the beauty of the lovely Roses, and admiring the scent of Lavenders as they grew on the opposite side of their yard. There were also Pansies and Tulips of every kind.

It was a wonderland. A small piece of heaven on earth, the sun was shining as she looked at the sky.

She was in her own world. A place of beauty and untainted innocence. She easily felt at home in the great outdoors, a curious explorer with searching eyes. On that particular day however, she discovered something, an infinitesimal trespasser who was intruding on _her_ haven. There was a bed of Pink roses, all in full bloom. Their color was so pure and delicate, that any unwanted insect would be visible immediately. Something had caught her eye, and so she walked in the direction of where the roses were for a closer look. The blushing petals were still wet with dew; she could see a strange creature no larger than a pea, crawling on the flower.

It appeared to be a ladybug.

She stared at it in fascination. It looked almost like a creature from a fable, with its red wings and black spots.

It began to move in a hopping motion till it flew from one flower to the next. She tried reaching out with her little hand to touch it, but it eluded her grasp.

Esme kept on following the restless insect, determined that somehow she _will_ catch it one way or another. She was a highly spirited child, and could not be easily deterred.

The ladybug however, was starting to fly away, and Esme was trailing behind it. Somehow she was entranced by its beauty. The insect was flying far ahead; leading her further away from the safety of her home and into the nearby woodlands.

She strayed farther away from her house. She stalked the Ladybug till it landed on a tree branch, just close enough for her to jump and grasp it.

The insect started to take flight again as she prepared to grab it. Esme did not realize she was standing on a small knoll surrounded with rocks. She leapt and raised her hand to the skies in hope of catching it, but failed. The steep slope of the knoll, caused her to slide erratically as her head hit a large stone. She went unconscious instantaneously. Esme laid on the soft grass at the mouth of the forest; her white dress was now stained by the blood that oozed from the gash on her head.

It was her hysterical mother that found her, twenty minutes later.

She could faintly remember being carried by her father back into their house. She could not exactly remember whether she was crying from the pain in her head, or the fact that all she saw was darkness.

She was laid down softly on a bed. She could hear people in the room.

Esme could hear snatches of their conversation.

_"There seems to be irreparable damage to her optic nerves." The voice sounded as if it belonged to an older man._

_"Irreparable?" Her mother asked, not daring to believe it._

_"But Doctor, isn't there a chance my daughter shall see again?" It was her father's voice._

_"Yes. But the chances are small to none. The faulty lies with the blunt force her head endured when she fell. I don't want to give you any false hopes for a recovery. But for now we can only hope and pray for the best." _

_The older man replied._

She felt something cold and wet being placed on her wound.

She screamed.

**A/N: Hey guys! I'm back with a new Fic! I am so excited for you guys to read it. Though, I must warn you that it will be a little OOC. So I hope you guys will be okay with that. I hope you enjoyed the first Chapter. An update will follow suit. Please let me know what you all think, I adore your thoughts and opinions. And constructive criticism only, please. :)**

**Stay tuned for Chapter 2. ;)**

**God Bless!**


	2. When A Flower Dies

Esme did not remember much about her parents.

Except for the existing memories she has of them by sound, not by sight.

Although it is vague, she can still recall in fragments how both her parents looked. Her father was a tall and handsome man. Lovely and gentle, while her mother was of average height and had a beautiful smile. They were good people, kind and considerate. And they loved their daughter very much.

If Esme would close her eyes, she could still hear her mother's voice humming her a gentle lullaby as she cradled her little girl in her arms.

Though Esme could no longer recall the exact details of her mother's face -visually, she can however recall the sounds of the woman that _was _her mother.

She knew each and every sigh her mother made. And Esme knew the many meanings in which manner the sound was created.

A low sigh usually means that she was being too rambunctious. And that repetitively banging her doll's feet against the wall was not a good idea.

An exasperated sigh usually means that her mother has had enough, and that she has reached her limit. Esme as a child, did manage to throw some of the most colorful array of tantrums a child could conjure. It was mainly because she was no longer allowed outside. And this, made her deeply sad.

Sometimes when it rained, she would find a way to climb up her bedroom window. She did not open it of course, (Her mother saw to it that it was locked.) but rather, she would press her ear against the cold glass, just to hear the sound of the rain. That little tapping by her windowsill somehow made her feel _better_, in a way.

It reassured her that the world _still_ did exist, even if she could not see it.

Esme, like any other child, was frightened of the dark. She would awake in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and when she opened her eyes, she couldn't tell whether she was awake or asleep. What comfort is the light of a lamp to one who cannot see it?

Those long nights of listening to the wind howl outside her window still haunts her.

It was not that her parents did not wish her to be happy and to play outside like any normal child. It was a matter of fear, from both parents. Particularly her mother.

Esme's accident left both her parents incredibly distressed. And they found themselves in a constant state of paranoia, they felt that if they left Esme unattended, another accident would happen.

No one took it more to heart, than her mother. During the first year since Esme's accident, she barely left the child's side. She was with her daughter everyday. She prepared all of her favorite meals; read to her stories before sleeping, and even made a habit of waking up in the dead of night to check on her. Some inner maternal need to protect her child. She did not let anyone know of the guilt she carried within her. Somehow her mother felt that what happened to her child was of her own doing. She did not forgive herself for having let her child go through such an ordeal. The guilt was so great, that over time she felt as though she were the one who took away Esme's sight. Her daughter had merely disappeared from her view that fateful day, and then...

Her husband could do little to console his despondent wife.

From what Esme can recall about her father, he was a quiet man. A giant of a being, but surprisingly gentle.

He loved to go out on long walks, and he usually took Esme with him. And those were the only times she was actually allowed outside since her accident.

He would sit Esme on his broad shoulders, with her little legs dangling over his chest.

She can still remember his voice,

_"Can you still remember the color of the sky, love?" He would ask in his deep voice, he would begin to walk more slowly so she could enjoy the country breeze._

_She would look up in hope of seeing the sky. Something. Anything._

_But there was nothing. She would squint her eyes to no avail._

_"Wus' it bwue, daddy?" She would reply in her tiny voice._

_"Yes, that's my girl." He would say, and he'd start walking again. "What color are Mummy's roses?"_

_Esme could feel the warmth of the sun she could not see, as she tried to remember the image of the flower._

_"Mummy has pink woses' daddy." She would reply. Even going as far as recalling the image of that flower on the day of her accident, just to be sure._

_"You're a very smart girl, my Esme." He would fondly say._

_"Daddy?"_

_"Yes dear?"_

_"Tell me the colors again. I don't wunt' to fowget." She would say to him._

_"Alright, sweetheart. Close your eyes,"_

_She did as she was told. She heard him speak again._

_"Listen closely, my angel." _

_She could feel him walking again._

_"The sky is blue, as blue as your Mummy's eyes. The trees are green," His voice sometimes sounded as if it came from a dream._

_They passed by a large tree. He paused and stretched out his long arm to a low branch. His fingers plucked a single leaf and handed it to his daughter._

_She could feel the foreign texture in her hand._

_"There are a lot of different shades of green, sweetheart. There is the green from the ocean, the green of a granny-smith apple and the green from an Emerald."_

_"Wut's an Emerald daddy?"_

_She heard him laugh. He had such a gentle voice in spite of his height. "You'll understand when you're older, my pretty one."_

Eventually, with time, and a little persistence. Esme learned to use her sense of hearing and her sense of touch. Gradually building her inner instinct to guide her, and to compensate for the eyes she lost. She found that, if she wanted to walk around the house, she'd have to do it by walking close to the walls, and preferably barefooted. She realized that their home's flooring consisted of different textures. The place with the scent of spices, bread and old flour; with the callous wooden floorboards was the kitchen.

The smooth marble with the soft carpet, and the scent of Lavenders, was their foyer.

The smell of paper, old leather and tobacco, was her father's study.

Finding everything else became easier. More or less.

When Esme turned six, she did not know she was going to lose something far more precious than her sight.

It started on one afternoon. The day was bright and clear. There was a jovial wind, and the sun's rays shone a more gentler manner. Who knew that such signs from nature could tell a lie, somehow softening the inevitable that lay ahead.

Her mother went into town, to purchase some materials for her sewing. On that day, of all days, it rained.

She had no parasol to shield her from the elements.

Somehow when her mother returned in the late afternoon, she could tell something was wrong.

A few days later, Esme noticed that it was her father who was tucking her in.

_"Where's Mummy?" She asked. Her father hovered above her as he gently fluffed her pillow and covered her with the blanket._

_He was silent._

_She felt him tucking the sheets around her, "Mummy's sick darling. And so daddy has to take care of her."_

_She felt him kiss her on the forehead._

_"Will Mummy be alright, daddy?"_

_He didn't answer her question. He looked at her for a long moment. "I love you, sweetheart. Go to sleep."_

_She heard the bedroom door close._

After that, everything started to change.

About a week since her mother fell ill, her father hired a governess to watch over her.

Esme could not particularly remember what her governess sounded like, but she didn't forget her name.

Her name was Rose.

She was very sweet and kind to Esme, and acted as sort of like an older sister to the young child. It did not take long for the two to become close.

Each day, Esme's father grew more distant. Till he eventually stopped visiting his child in the nursery completely.

Her father did not tell her that her mother's health was declining rapidly.

One early morning. Just shortly before seven. Rose left Esme in her room to prepare her breakfast.

Esme was sitting quietly on her bed. She wore a pink dress with matching pink ribbons. She had removed her shoes.

She wanted to see her mother. She ached desperately for her mother's voice. She missed her very much, it was already beginning to feel like a long time since she had spent time with her. After all, her father merely said she was sick. He did not say, she could not visit her.

She slipped off her bed and slowly made her way out.

Esme made her way down the long corridors. She kept close to the walls and held out her hand to feel for her mother's bedroom door. The wood was Oak, and it felt extremely smooth to touch; the door handle was more circular if not smaller, compared to the ones used with the other rooms.

It took her exactly four and a half minutes to find it.

She stood on her little toes to reach the doorknob. She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

It did not occur to her that the room was incredibly silent.

Esme walked inside.

_"Mummy?"_

_There was no answer._

_"Mummy, are you awake?" She called out softly._

_She could smell her mother's favorite perfume._

_Esme kept on walking till she stumbled on something._

_It was soft, large and somewhat rectangular. She realized it was her mother's bed._

_She could sense that her mother was asleep. She moved a little further till she could feel the night stand. _

_Esme felt that something was sticking out from her mother's bedside._

_She reached out and touched it. _

_It was her mother's hand._

_She shook it gently, "Mummy. Mummy, wake up, its time for bweakfast."_

_Her mother was so still. Why was she so still?_

_She shook her mother's hand harder this time, "Mummy, are you awake?"_

_Her mother did not answer._

_She didn't understand what was happening. Before she knew it, she was crying as she continued to shake her mother awake._

_Just down the hall, her father heard the sobs escaping from the room._

_He found himself practically running out of his study room, and into their bedroom._

_"No. . ." Her father said as he stood outside the doorway._

_Esme could hear her father's voice as he entered the room._

_She turned in the direction of the voice, "Daddy, please wake Mummy. Its time for bweakfast." She sobbed._

_She could hear her father breathing heavily as he picked up his daughter in his arms._

_When he spoke, she did not imagine a voice could sound so broken, so dismal. Not from the man she deemed so strong and brave._

_"You're mother needs to rest now, Esme." _

_She heard him call for Rose._

_"Daddy-"_

_"Just go and have breakfast with Rose, daddy will see you in a little while."_

_Rose arrived at the doorstep. She saw the dead woman in the bed. Before she could scream, she saw Esme's father. She looked into his eyes as he shook his head, and she finally understood._

_Her father handed her to the young governess._

_"Rose, Esme is ready to eat breakfast now."_

_"Yes, sir." Rose replied in a voice so small it was barely audible._

_"No!" Esme yelled as she hung on to the door frame. "Please, daddy-"_

_"Take her downstairs, Rose."_

_"Daddy, wake her up!" She was beginning to cry again._

_Her father gently pried her hands off from the door frame, "You have to go now." His voice sounded tight, painful._

_She could remember being carried out of the room._

_"Mummy wake up! Please wake up! Mummy!"_

_She was screaming as she choked on her own sobs._

_She didn't understand why her mother didn't wake up._

Everything else became a blur. As if she had become some sort of phantom, spinning in a theoretical carousel.

She was never told that her mother died from complications due to pneumonia. The doctors could do little to save her life.

And no one expected, that merely two days after his wife's death, Esme's father was seen by one of the servants entering the nearby woodlands - a pistol in his hand.

**A/N: Hey guys! I hope this Chapter wasn't too intense for you. And I hope you all enjoyed it. And Esme's early childhood started in the early 1900s just so you know. :) **

**You guys know what to do. ;)**

**God bless!**

Chapter 3 won't be too far behind. ;)


	3. A Stranger at The Door

Everything was confusing.

Everything no longer made sense.

She entered into a new pace of life. It was dark and lonesome. She did not know how to cope. It was so different from how she had started, so far from the gaiety and beauty of a life that no longer belonged to her, but belonged to the person she once was. And so she locked her bedroom door, together with her and her emotions. Shutting out the world and its miseries.

She spent her entire time during her parent's funeral crying in her room.

Even shunning out the relatives who wished to see and comfort her.

She felt abandoned. That sinking feeling of despair consumed her like some cancerous growth. The long nights melted into days, one after the other. It was the darkest period of her young life. She no longer spoke to Rose, she became cold and sullen. She would barely eat and rarely uttered a word. It was like a part of her died and went into the earth, never knowing if she could live life the way it used to be.

All her parent's relatives arrived in their home on the day of the burial.

She kept her bedroom door locked.

There were _so many_ voices. Loud and noisy, their clattering tongues like a hive of wasps against her ear. She wanted them all to just _shut up!_

She could hear them talk all the way up in her room.

_"I hear the little one is taking it quite hard," Said, one woman._

_"The poor dear. From what the governess told me, the little girl kept her door locked the whole day since yesterday." Said another woman._

_She could hear a third female voice enter into their conversation, "That's true you know. I haven't gotten so much as a peak at that child. Seems she wants to be left alone rather badly."_

_"I can't blame her."_

Esme felt dizzy as she listened to them. Their voices spinning in her head like flies. She wanted them to go away. She wanted them _all_ to go away.

_If only they would go away_.

The burial was to be held at the local cemetery at precisely four in the afternoon.

Esme laid there in her bed. Angry and incredibly depressed. She did not want to move. She felt as if the sadness in her heart was going to suck her inside out.

She knew Rose would knock on her door sooner or later.

She was right.

_"Esme? Esme, sweetheart. Its-time." Rose said quietly. Listening to the door for any sign that Esme would respond._

_Esme knew exactly what time it was for. It was time for the earth to devour her parents whole, and she'll never see them again. Ever._

_"Esme?" Rose knocked again gently._

_She'd give them all an answer._

_She picked up the first thing her tiny hands could reach. The little porcelain rabbit on the nightstand._

_She threw it haphazardly at the door, followed by a loud bang and crash._

_"Let me alone!"_ _ She screamed._

Rose knew it was no use. If she forced it, Esme would only become more upset than she already is. She looked at the door one last time before leaving.

The burial would have to take place without her.

Esme laid on the floor. She could hear the house was starting to empty. The funeral was starting. She pressed her ear harder against the carpet and kept on listening till the house was completely silent. No voices. No chattering tongues.

She was wearing a little black dress, with black ribbons. Her hair was in a wild mass of curls. She sat there in the center of the room; the light flowing in from the windows like gold dust.

She cried again.

_"Mummy? Daddy?" _ She softly whispered into the empty air.

Nothing.

They were not coming back. But she could still hear them, hear their voices in her head. And she would cry harder, begging, pleading to be held and to be comforted from a world so cold and unforgiving.

She fell asleep on the carpet, facing the door.

A few hours later, she could hear Rose knocking on the door. She was saying something about dinner. Esme didn't bother open her eyes, she didn't bother even responding. She just wanted to sleep.

And so she did.

It was raining. The sound of the thunder crashing outside was what awoke her.

Esme did not know what time it was.

Only that no light ever dare touch her eyes.

She had a notion it must have been early dawn.

She stirred from the cold ground, she could hear someone knocking from the downstairs front door.

Rose was in the living room, setting the table. She desperately prayed that Esme would open the door and eat something. Her health was going to be fragile at the rate she's going.

That child has barely eaten the past week. The brunette governess placed some scrambled eggs and hot rolls on two large ceramic platters, when she heard the same knock at the doorstep, louder this time.

She wiped her hands on her apron and proceeded out of the dining hall and into the foyer.

She grasped the brass doorknob and pulled the door open. There was an elderly man wearing a black bowler hat standing outside. He seemed to be carrying a package. He had beady black eyes, white hair; tall and somehow thin, with bushy sideburns. His coat was dripping from the rain.

"Yes, may I help you?" Rose said.

"My name is Eugene O' Hara, Madam." The old man replied, in a croaky voice.

"What is it that you want?" Rose asked.

"I come from London, madam. With orders from my Mistress Clementine to take her granddaughter and bring her back to London."

"Clementine? You mean Esme's Grandmother?" Rose said, stepping back to let him in.

He walked past the threshold as he took off his hat.

"Allow me," Said Rose as she helped the gentleman take off his hat and coat.

She watched him enter into the foyer.

"I believe I don't quite understand her request, sir." She said as she hung his coat.

"You see, Mistress Esme's father wrote his mother before-" There was a fraction of an awkward pause,

"...Before the unfortunate incident...He wished for Mistress Clementine as legal gaurdian of his daughter." Eugene O' Hara replied quietly.

"I see."

"She wished for her granddaughter to be brought back within today."

"Today? That's too soon, sir. The child just went through a teribble ordeal, she hasn't even eaten yet."

Rose could not simply make an instantaneous decision. It was going to be a sudden change for Esme. _Too sudden. _She's barely coping with the recent loss of her parents. And now, moving to London with her grandmother?

"I'm sorry sir, you can't take her today. Too much has happened, she needs time to undersand what is happening. And she will definitely need more time to adjust to the idea of living with her grandmother. This is all happening too soon."

Eugene's old face contorted into a thoughtful expression. "If this were any ordinary circumstance madam, I would have been inclined to agree with you. But I'm afraid the decision does not lie with you. I have my orders, and I have to obey them."

Rose knew there was no other way.

"Very well. I'll show you to her room, please follow me." She said as she turned on her heel and started out of the foyer and towards the large staircase.

"Now, mind you. Esme is going through a period of extreme depression. The child won't open her door. So, you'll have to be rather persuasive." Said Rose as they climbed the stairs.

"I think I'll manage, madam."

They took a right down the hallway and went straight ahead.

The latter found themselves standing outside her door. Somehow unsure with how to approach the simple matter of communicating with the child.

Rose raised a hand as she knocked on the door.

"Go away."

Was the answer they heared from inside.

Both adults looked at each other and knew that this was going to be no easy task.

**A/N: Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed this Chapter. Keep them reviews coming. ;) I deeply appreciate each and every one of you for taking the time to review. So thank you my darlings. :) Another Chapter will be up shortly.**

**God Bless! **


	4. Rosewood, Number Seven

Rose knocked again for the tenth time.

And each knock went unanswered.

Both adults were beginning to lose their patience.

Esme was a stubborn child, if not sweet. And she knew what she wanted. If she did not want to see you, your quest was hopeless.

Ever since she lost her sight, something developed inside of her in order to compensate with the fragility and vulnerability that came with being blind, especially at such a young age. And it became all the more profound with the loss of her parents.

Something had died within her when she lost her sight, and she died a second time with the deaths of her parents.

The child that once knew happiness, was no more. At such a young age, she learned the meaning of hatred. What it meant for her to die and to actually survive. And something had to take the place of the innocence that she lost. For the world was no longer a haven of green meadows and gentle brooks, it was no longer a place for flowers that could be easily crushed by life's brutal force.

She was like a sleeping volcano. A seemingly benign flame that could easily deceive the unsuspecting. That raging fire she kept within her locked away and concealed within the confines of her young heart; where no blunt force of life's precarious cycle could ever snuff it out.

Esme needed that fire to stay alive.

"Esme, darling. Please open the door, there's a nice gentleman to see you." Rose said, withdrawing her hand from the door. It was no use.

Eugene O' Hara turned to look at Rose and said, "May I?"

"I don't know what good it could do, but..." Rose said, defeated. She stepped aside as Eugene took her position at the door.

"Mistress Esme?"

There was still no answer.

"Mistress Esme, your grandmother sent me here. She wants me to take you to London to live with her-"

Esme was listening. She sat herself up from the ground. She was debating weather or not to open the door.

But she wanted to. She remembers her grandmother, faintly of course. She was only three when she first met her. But, she desperately needed familiarity, despite the lack of a more tangible reminder. She was so tired of change, so tired with the company of strangers.

She wanted to open the door now.

"Please open the door Mistress," Eugene continued, "Your grandmother even had me bring you a present, someone to keep you company during our journey."

Eugene bent down in his tall form and set down the medium square box he held on the floor. Carefully, he untied the string and removed the brown paper.

Inside, Esme could hear a package being opened. Curiosity was now drawing her closer to the door. She had placed her shoes on and was standing at the center of the room. Still somehow hesitant.

She could hear Eugene's voice again.

"Her name is Claudia, Mistress. Your grandmother wanted you to have her." He said, desperately hoping for any sign that the child would respond.

"Its no use..." Rose started to say.

They were both about to make a move to leave; somehow trying to formulate a different form of strategy, when they heard the door click. That strange sound of metals twisting together.

At first both adults thought it was their imagination, a figment of a fantasy, but soon the door opened.

The figure of a little girl poked through the door. Her wild curls was framing her lovely face. A ghost-like pallor in contrast to her black dress. She was such a pale little thing. Her eyes were glossy, unfocused and unsure.

Rose whispered to Eugene, "She's been blind since she was four. Be gentle when you speak to her."

Eugene knelt to Esme's eye level, and gently took her hand as he handed her the beautiful doll.

It was the most exquisite doll, with a delicate china-face and curly black hair. It was wearing a charming purple dress with aquamarine eyes.

Esme held the doll close. Not saying anything.

"Do you like her?" Eugene asked.

He watched her nod.

"Would you like to go see your grandmother now, Mistress Esme?"

"Yes." She replied quietly.

"Alright, before we do so. I think Madam Rose would like to help you prepare before we leave." Eugene stepped aside to allow Rose through.

"Oh Esme, sweetheart. Are you alright darling?" Rose said worriedly as she picked up Esme in her arms.

Rose turned to Eugene, "I think it best, that she eat first before the journey, sir. She's lost weight."

"Of course, certainly. I"ll simply await her in the foyer."

"Very well."

Rose watched Eugene leave.

She set Esme down and crouched low to speak to her. Rose was finally able to breath a sigh of relief.

Rose tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, "Are you hungry?"

Esme nodded.

"Alright. That's good, I have some sweet rolls downstairs, you like sweet rolls, darling?" Said Rose as she took the child's little hand.

They started to walk, but then Esme stopped abruptly.

"What is it, darling?"

Without looking up. Esme said, "Daddy's not coming back."

"Oh sweetheart. I'm so sorry." Rose replied, somehow uncertain with her words. She did not what to say to say to give her some semblance of peace.

She made a move to give her a hug. That instinctual act of comfort, but Esme didn't want to be touched.

"I'm hungwy, Rose." She said quietly.

Her governess was taken aback at the strange new personality Esme has developed. "Yes. Of course, come on." She said, sounding a little perplexed as they continued their walk through the long corridors.

Rose set Esme down on one of the chairs and gave her large helpings of eggs, ham and bread.

Esme found herself starving. But yet, she ate very slowly, she savored the taste of the bread and chewed quietly.

The sugary consistency of the bread's outer layer tasted good against her tongue. For a moment, she felt a little better.

Esme drank a tall glass of water and fresh juice. She was really thirsty.

After she had eaten, Rose took her back up stairs where she would prepare the young child to her journey to London.

Rose was the first to enter Esme's room. She accidentally stepped on the broken pieces of the ceramic rabbit that Esme had thrown.

"What in good heavens-"

While Rose was preoccupied in her room.

Esme wandered further out into the corridor, still carrying her new doll. She wanted to be in her mother's room one last time.

Rose had to sweep up the remnants of the broken figurine. Shortly after disposing of the broken pieces, she went back up the stairs to commence packing Esme's clothes and belongings in a large trunk.

The petite governess started to straighten out Esme's bed and returned all of her toys into their proper place. She then proceeded to Esme's closet, and selected a number of dresses with matching hats and shoes for her to bring.

As she held a delicate pink dress Esme had worn once, with all its girly frills and childish ribbons; a feeling suddenly overcame her. And Rose knew, she was going to miss that child terribly.

Thirty minutes later, Rose completed the packing that was necessary.

Eugene O' Hara watched her come down the stairs with a heavy looking trunk.

He met her halfway.

"Allow me, madam." He said as he took the burden from her hands.

Rose stared at him for a long moment, "Take care of her, will you?"

"Of course, madam. She'll be well cared for." He smiled gently at Rose. His wrinkles were lining clearly around his eyes and mouth.

Rose nodded.

"Where is the little Mistress?"

"I'll go find her." Rose replied.

"Alright, I shall place this in the car."

She watched him heave the trunk on his shoulder, and exited to the front door.

Rose went back up the stairs.

"Esme? Esme, darling. Its time to go," Rose called out as she walked into the hallway.

It was empty. Which was odd, she saw the child there a few minutes ago.

She retraced her footings and returned to Esme's room.

"Esme?" She called out, but the room was empty.

A silent alarm was ringing in her chest.

She ran to the west wing of the house - _empty._

"Mr. O' Hara!" Rose shrieked as she ran down the last flight of steps, and out to the front door.

Eugene was waiting beside the automobile.

"Madam, I don't want to be rude, but the journey ahead is quite long and strenou-"

"Esme's gone!" She yelled.

His eyes went wide. "Calm yourself, woman. What do you mean _gone?_"

"I can't find her. You've got to help me!"

"Alright, let's go back into the house."

Both of them searched all four corners of the house. Nothing.

They searched high and low, hither and thither, but it was almost as if she vanished.

They were back in the foyer. Rose was frantic.

"Could it be that someone has taken her?" She found herself trembling.

"No, no. Impossible. We were here the whole time."

"Then where is she?!"

Eugene had no answer.

But then, Rose suddenly realized it.

She knew where Esme was.

Eugene watched Rose suddenly run up the stairs. He vainly tried to follow her.

He had no idea what she was on.

She ran so fast that he lost her down in one of the corridors.

"Madam," He said breathlessly. Dear lord his knees were aching.

He turned a sharp corner, and saw Rose standing in the doorway of a room.

She was as stiff as a stick.

He walked briskly to her, feeling utter confused and tired, "What in the world is happ-"

He noticed her eyes were transfixed on something. He followed her gaze.

There inside the room was a small little girl, asleep on her mother's bed. A perfume bottle was spilled beside her.

She was fast asleep.

In a world of silent dreams and forgetfulness.

Esme did not know how long she had been asleep, but the last thing she remembered was being picked up from her mother's bed.

The journey from the countryside and back to the city was long and dragging.

Esme was drifting back and forth from consciousness. She stayed asleep, but she could feel the wheels of the car creak from the stones and uneven roads. The noisy engine was like a roaring lion.

It took them three hours before they reached the main city, and by then it was early evening.

London. England's jewel. It was a city that was cultured and cultural. A beautiful city with a historical past, a rich present, and an abundant future. It was a different world. The people were poised and sophisticated; with an understated elegance and a regal sort of manner, if not charming. A far cry from the world Esme lived in.

In the countryside, the only noise that ever disturbed the peace was the weather. But in London, there were the sounds of automobiles, sometimes carriages, and a lot of people out and about in the streets. You could easily hear them, the sound of heels against the cobblestones.

It was nine when they arrived in Clementine's house.

Esme's grandmother lived in a large home, near the main city of London. Their house was located on Rosewood street, number seven. The one with the small garden of Pansies. The houses in that part of London were situated quite closely together, so each house had its own neighbor. Her house also happened to be near the town square. A few blocks away near a small but charming park. During the day, sweet old ladies would roam about singing lovely songs as they sold flowers. But tonight, the park was empty and the night was beginning to settle, with heavy clouds dancing in the heavens. The only light in the darkness were the dazed and yellow streetlamps.

Esme was half awake in the automobile.

She could hear voices, slowly she felt herself being picked up again.

She sensed that they were entering a house, the air was cold outside. But once inside Clementine's house, it was blessedly warm.

The house had a strange smell. It smelled of saffron, sage and that other thing, potpourri.

"She fell asleep on the way, Mistress."

It was Eugene's voice, he was the one who was carrying her.

"The poor dear. What a beautiful child, she has her mother's hair. She's grown so much." The voice sounded of a lady in her early sixties. She had a lovely speaking voice, a little low but with a rich timbre, and a feminine tone.

This woman, Esme guessed, was her grandmother.

"Where is her room Mistress?"

"Up the stairs, to the left, next to mine. Careful not to wake her."

"Yes, Mistress."

"By the way, Mistress. Are you aware of her problem? Her sight?"

"Yes, Eugene. Her father informed me. We'll have to take extra precaution, and care with my granddaughter. I don't want any more _accidents. _The child has suffered enough."

"Very good, madam."

"Off you, go."

Eugene reached the top of the stairs, when Clementine called him again.

"Eugene, have the cook prepare a large breakfast for Esme will you? I don't want my grandchild starving in the morning."

"Yes, Mistress."

The last thing Esme remembered, was being placed on a fragrant downy bed. She held Claudia tighter and fell back into a deep slumber.

**A/N: Hey darlings! Hope you enjoyed this one. I thank you all for the lovely reviews, they are making me delirious with happiness. Do it again. ;)**

**Chapter 5 already? ;D Ooooooo. ;)**

**God Bless my angels!**


	5. Scarlet

Clementine was kneeling at the foot of her bed. The dismal glow of Grey light was reflecting into her bedroom window. It was early dawn, just before five.

The thick eiderdown of her bed, with its purple flowered pattern, was neatly spread out. The soft crimson carpet lay soft beneath her knobby knees as she held the rosary in her hand; her old fingers clutching each bead. She had been praying for several hours, her legs were beginning to throb, but she paid no mind to them. Clementine was praying for the soul of the son she lost. Her heart mournful.

The child that she once bore. A little boy whom she had once mothered, protected, and reared into the world.

He was gone.

Clementine by nature was a very strong willed woman. Her character, though feminine and charismatic, was often fierce when challenged. But within reason.

She had pale-blond hair, the shade of sand or wheat. It was always neatly braided, and often wore it in luxurious twists or buns. Beneath her aristocratic beauty, though aged through the years; still retained remnants of a fine face with sensitive features. Clementine had a delicate nose, and high cheekbones that defined the specific character of her personage. Yet beneath her piercing blue eyes, there was a depth of quality about her that was known only to few. Though she was blessed with wisdom, she had a tendency to be rather domineering. But never without grace and poise. Though in her youth, Clementine was one to throw a fit if she deemed necessary. But nowadays, she did it only on special occasions.

Esme's Grandmother had a very distinct way of speaking, very precise and direct to point. She was honest and despised frivolity. But she also possessed a gentle manner that emerged when a person least expected it.

She had a way with expressing her distaste when she was not pleased.

Her words could curl one's hair with sarcasm, but she had a very special way of doing it.

For a person to survive in the world, one had to be tenacious of life; with a hunger and drive to match it. And that she was. She lost her husband when her son was only a mere infant, and was left alone to rear him herself. She had to be both roles of the parents. (That included the role of being a father.) Clementine trusted no one, and though a prominent business woman; capable of generating her own monetary needs, she preferred to do things herself. She did not rely on others for what she can do twice as fast and for half the time it took to do it.

She had a scarce amount of friends, and even fewer ones who are close to her. Others mistook her for an insensitive old windbag. But in reality, within the confines of privacy, her emotions ran deep. Sometimes too deep for her to bear. That insufferable act of repressing her emotions as tight as a corset has been her second nature through the years. It has been her anchor in the midst of crisis.

And now, she was faced again with uncertainty. The child who was now living in her house had no one else in the world but her. Not only was the child helpless, but her way of life will always be questioned. For she will always need special care and attention. And how was Clementine to achieve such a feat, with a woman of her age? She can take care of her granddaughter just as well. But...

Life was so short, and her years are coming faster now. Who will take care of Esme when death would soon knock on her door?

She had no answer. She cannot yet look into the unseen future if she herself is clouded with doubt and confusion.

She stood up from the floor, finishing her prayers. She was still in her dressing gown. The household would still be asleep, it was far too early for anyone to be awake. She returned her rosary beads to the altar she kept beside her bed. She tightened the sash around her waist and proceeded towards the door. The entire house was silent. Not even the mice could be heard. She closed the door behind her, and walked deftly to the room beside hers.

She was not sure whether or not her granddaughter was still asleep or awake. After all, it was still only half past four.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

She was surprised to find Esme sitting quietly on the bed. Her hair in curls, the sheets lightly disheveled. She was still wearing her little black dress, her back was facing the door.

Clementine did not know whether to call out to her, or to approach her first.

And so she went with her instinct. She half closed the door, and walked across the room. It was rather ironic to think, that this room once belonged to Esme's father as a child.

She knelt at Esme's bedside.

Now Clementine was able to look at her grandchild more clearly. She was so pale, so fragile. Esme looked so small, her eyes withdrawn.

"Esme...Esme, do you know who I am?" Clementine said gently, brushing a hair away from her eyes.

Esme blinked slowly, and nodded.

Clementine's heart broke into several pieces. Not only for her son who died, but for this child who was left behind.

Her eyes were brimming with tears, but there was no trace of the emotion she felt so greatly inside when she spoke.

"You have such lovely hair, my darling. Wouldn't it be much nicer if we combed it and put little ribbons on it? Would you like that Esme?"

Esme merely nodded.

Clementine stood up, and took a brush from the vanity mirror near the bed.

A tear was threatening to roll on her cheek, she wiped it away the moment it did.

She sat on the bed next to Esme, and started to gently brush through the thick curls.

"You know," Clementine said, untangling several pieces of hair, "Your father used to have the exact same curly hair as you. I never could seem to properly comb his curls, they had a life of their own."

Esme said nothing.

"There," Spoke Clementine once more, the final piece of hair loosened. "That looks much better."

She looked at Esme's young face. It was unfair. So unfair for a child to be so sad, so sullen, as if life had gone out from her, before it could begin.

"Darling, won't you please speak to me? Grandmother will listen." She said softly.

"Esme?"

Clementine touched the child's cheek. It was burning hot.

"Oh dear lord..." Clementine exclaimed, "Come here darling," She picked up the child in her arms. Her whole body was extremely hot. She was so thin.

"Esme, we've got to change you out of your clothes alright?"

There was that same blank expression on her face, as if she were in a trance.

She laid Esme on the bed, and carefully removed her dress.

"What in heaven's name is this..." She gasped. There were red patches on the child's chest and stomach.

She quickly threw the dress on the floor, and opened one of the drawers. Esme's clothes had already been seen to, the night before.

She took a night gown at random from one of the drawers. "Here, sweetheart. We've got to put this on you."

She dressed Esme as fast as she could.

She tucked the covers around her, "Stay here, grandmother will return. I'll bring you some delicious food alright?"

She kissed Esme on the forehead before exiting out of the room.

Clementine needed to awaken the rest of the household, the child was in dire need of a Physician.

She went back to her room to change. As she took off several pieces of clothing, she feared the worst.

_Scarlet Fever._

**A/N: Hey guys! Thank you for waiting, I know its been eleven days since I last updated. Please forgive me. XD I hope you guys enjoyed this one, an update won't be too far off. Keep em' reviews coming. ;) You know how much I adore you all.**

**God Bless!**

**Chapter 6?**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOoooooo. ;D**


	6. The Doctor Next Door

Esme was lying in her bed. Her tiny body felt heavy. It felt so hot, so humid. As if her blood was boiling in hot water internally. Yet it felt so cold, as if her bare flesh were being repeatedly rubbed down with ice. She curled herself into a ball and somehow fell into an uneasy half sleep. In the distance she could hear her father calling her.

Clementine was already fully dressed twenty minutes later, and very much wide awake. She had spent the next fifteen minutes rousing the servants from their sleep. But as usual, Mr. Eugene was always the first to be awaken at this hour.

Clementine found him in the private parlour, already straightening furniture, and arranging flowers.

"Good morning, madam." Eugene greeted, bowing his head lightly. "Mistress Esme's breakfast is still being prepared by the cook. It should be ready momentarily."

"No, Eugene. That's not of great importance at the moment, I'm afraid to tell you that we have a grave situation upon our hands." Said Clementine, unconsciously pacing back and forth across the room. Her heels clattering away like her state of mind. "I've already awoken the others," She said stopping her pacing to face him, her pale gown trailing behind her. "I need you to find me a Physician. As quick as you can my good man."

"Certainly. Who for madam?"

"Esme, Eugene. I'm afraid she has the scarlet fever." Clementine's brows tightened with tension.

"Lord have mercy. How can you be certain madam?" Said Eugene, setting down the feather duster.

"I'm not. That's why we need a Physician."

"But madam, if I may, It is Sunday today. There will be no clinic for the day, lest alone should there be a Physician open on this day, or this hour."

Clementine gave him a look, a look of hers that was so piercing, so characteristically acidic, it almost reminded him of venom.

She pressed her hands firmly together, and inhaled quietly. "I could care less if they were having tea with the Queen herself! I especially don't care if they are still asleep! Awaken them then, rouse those tired dogs from their slumbers. Or so help me God I will remove their heads, and turn this street into the new Tower of London, should they be stubborn with me. But bring them here, now! I will not forsake the life of my grandchild!" Her voice was beginning to rise with each word she had spoken.

She watched Eugene flee the room with her orders. Another female servant came up to her, carrying a basin of water. "Where would you like this, madam?"

"To Esme's bedroom."

"Very good, ma'am."

"And the sponge?"

"Its here too, madam"

"Very well. We should begin, follow me."

They exited the private parlour, and proceeded past the foyer, then climbed up the steps. They turned a corner, then to her room. Clementine opened Esme's bedroom door, and entered together with the servant.

She sat by her Grandchild's bedside; the servant had set down the basin of water next to her nightstand.

Esme was perspiring greatly.

"Esme? Esme, love. We've got to clean you up a bit alright darling?" Clementine said gently.

She propped up the lethargic little girl, and lifted her nightgear. Her body was still so reddish, so raw.

Clementine took the sodden sponge from the basin, and softly started to dab it on Esme's skin.

"No, daddy. Its cold..." Esme murmured, unconsciously.

"My Dear Lord...She's delirious..." Clementine said under her breath.

She continued the sponge bath, then dried her up and changed her with fresh clothing.

She turned to the female servant next to her.

"See if the cook has finished preparing Esme's breakfast. I want some food in her stomach." Said Clementine, covering Esme with a blanket.

"Yes, Madam."

The female servant returned far more earlier than she expected.

"What is it Judith?" She asked, "Did I not send you back to the kitchen?"

"You did ma'am. But I'm afraid Mr. O' Hara has returned ma'am. He said all clinics are closed-"

"Where is he?"

"In the foyer Madam."

She dismissed the servant with a vague flutter of her hand.

She made sure Esme was well covered with the large blanket, and left the child's side.

She quietly closed the door, and stormed through the hallway, and back down the stairs.

Eugene was at the foot of the stairs when he saw her come down. He held his breath.

"Mr. O' Hara, I sent you on an emergency errand. Not on a leisurely walk!"

"Madam-"

"Are you positive that there are no clinics open today? Or at least a Physician within a hundred kilometer radius here? What can I possibly do to receive medical help for my grandchild. Does this mere pathogen need to metamorphosis into the black bloody plague before they get here?!"

"Madam I assure you, I've looked everywhere. They're either out of town, or closed. I've tried my b-"

"You're best is not enough! You might as well go up the stairs, and smother my granddaughter in her sleep. You're killing her Eugene." Clementine exasperated. She was reaching a boiling point.

"Madam?" A small voice squeaked.

"What!"

Judith shook as she held the silver tray filled with food, and a large bowl of soup.

"If I may madam, why don't you try Dr. Cullen next door?"

"Who is Dr. Cullen?" Clementine asks, a single aristocratic eyebrow raised.

"The one who purchased Mr. Burckleworth's house last week, madam."

"You mean the one next door?"

The maid nodded.

"I didn't even know anyone was living there now. He is a Doctor you say?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. Take that food upstairs to Esme, Judith."

The maid excused herself, and climbed the stairs.

Clementine turned back to face Eugene O' Hara.

She studied him for a moment. Her fierce expression suddenly softened, considerably.

"I've always trusted you, haven't I Eugene?"

"Yes, madam."

"Good. Now, redeem yourself. Bring Dr. Cullen here, now."

Without any further delay, Eugene bowed lightly and exited.

Back inside her room, Esme was hearing her father's voice. Her name was being called repeatedly. He would not stop calling for her; his repetitive chant digging deeper, and further into her mind. His haunting wails, driving her hysterical, and anxiety ridden.

"Daddy? Daddy!? Take me with you! Please, don't leave me!"

In the darkness, she reached out her hands in the empty air. Grasping for a ghost that death has long collected.

Judith, who entered the room a few minutes ago with her breakfast, was desperately trying to calm her down.

"What in the name of all that is holy?" Uttered Clementine, as she entered the room.

"Madam, I-"

Downstairs the doorbell chimes could be heard.

"Answer the door, Judith. I'll take care of her."

"Yes, Madam."

Clementine sat by the child's bedside. She look petrified. Her cheeks were all ruddy despite her transparent skin. She looked mottled by her rashes.

"Esme, shhh. It's alright dearest. You'll be fine,"

The child would not be comforted, her sobs came in heavy gasps.

Her grandmother gently touched Esme's cheek, but much to the debacle efforts of soothing the primal babe, Esme had forcefully pushed her hand away.

"Daddy, they won't let me go. They won't let me go!" She cajoled, writhing angrily underneath the sheets.

Clementine was at a loss of what to do.

"Please darling, you've got to calm down," Said her grandmother, desperately trying to keep her vexed grandchild still.

Judith was already at the foyer, ready to answer the front door. Yet Esme's cries could still be heard echoing throughout the house.

The maid squeezed the silver handle, and pulled the door open. She could see the silhouette of a man through the mosaic glass window.

"Dr. Cullen?" Said Judith, not even daring to blink.

A man stood at the doorstep. His eyes deep and brooding. His icy features were enigmatic as they are impassive.

Dr. William Carlisle Cullen was impeccably dressed. He wore a spotless black suit with a very understated manner. He was like a giant. There was a cold wind that followed him as he stepped past the threshold, with Eugene not far behind. His unruly straight blonde hair was slicked back; a careless strand dangling on his forehead. There was an air of ominous arrogance about him. Some strange savagery behind his stance. His eyes were the color of the sun at dawn. Yet there was something almost menacing about him.

Judith closed the door and noticed he had an infinitesimal vein in the corner of his temple. She need not know the temperament of this man. And so she kept her burning questions to herself.

"Where is the child?" His words were slow, precise. His voice was deep, gravelly. It had the consistency of sandpaper, yet his words flowed eloquently like silk.

"Follow me," Said Eugene.

He entered the child's bedroom several minutes later.

"Dr. Cullen?" Greeted Clementine as she approached him. From behind her he could see Esme being placated by another female servant.

"Who does this child belong to?" He said lowly. His pale face completely blank of expression.

"She's my granddaughter, Doctor. She's terribly ill, she has these rashes," Clementine gestured him to follow her.

"Esme," She said, but Esme was not listening. She was kicking and screaming. The other female servant was holding down her legs, as Clementine held down her hands. A feeble attempt of calming her down.

"Let me alone!" She screamed. Trying to twist her hands free from her grandmother's grasp.

Dr. Cullen watched quietly from behind. He was clutching a black leather bag.

He set it down to a table nearby, and opened it. He took out a rather grim looking syringe, and filled it with a clear liquid from a vial.

Before Clementine could protest, he lifted Esme's sleeve and administered the drug.

He easily found the vein and pushed the needle down.

The child screamed in pain as the sharp object tore into her skin.

"What in heaven's name are you doing!" Exclaimed Clementine. "What did you do to her?"

"I believe it is what you call a sedative, madam. You're efforts are...Somewhat lacking." He said dryly.

"What!" She replied heatedly.

Clementine turned to look at her grandchild, and noticed Esme become soporific. Her body relaxing, her screams receding.

"That was not superfluous, Doctor." Said Clementine sternly.

"Madam, you had your servant call upon me. I cannot conduct a complete medical analysis if my patient is belligerent. And I am here, now. If my services displease you-"

"Pardon me..." Clementine suddenly said, clearing her throat. "I just can't bear to see her like this. Please, help her. Help my Esme, Doctor."

He stared at her for a long while. His penetrating eyes regarding her for a moment. His response was barely a noticeable nod.

He stood at Esme's bedside and looked upon the child. A hapless waif, perspiring severely.

Without even touching her, he spoke, "When did the fever start?"

"I'm not quite sure, Doctor. But the effects it had on her was what I noticed early this morning. She was warm, feverish, and her body is covered with these rashes. I only fear it might be the scarlet fever."

"May I?" He gestured quietly towards a sleeping Esme.

"You may."

Clementine stood aside as she watched the strange Physician perform several examinations.

He listened to her breathing. Which was raspy and moist. He took her pulse, even at the height of the sedative, Esme reacted to the touch of his skin.

When he finally completed his task, he turned to her grandmother.

"It is scarlet fever." Said the Doctor.

"Dear Lord..." Clementine said, a wave of helplessness flooding her.

"But it is far more complicated than that, I'm afraid." His tone was dark.

"How do you mean?"

"She has concocted pneumonia. She will have to be on strong antibiotics." He replied, walking back to the nightstand; removing several vials from his leather bag. He placed four of them in a pristine line accordingly. He took a pen and a crisp white paper, he deftly wrote several instructions in under a few minutes.

Before Clementine could speak, he walked back to where she stood, then placed the piece of paper in her hands.

"Read it. Everything must be followed by the letter. I will return tomorrow morning." He said with unwavering eyes.

He then walked back to the table and closed his leather bag with a sound of finality.

"Dr Cullen, there's also one other thing. She has not been eating properly. She's been losing weight, she won't eat. Is there something you can give her?" Clementine asked, still clutching the paper he had given her.

"One must know hunger in order to seek food." He replied simply before leaving.

**A/N: Hey Guys! I am so sorry for the delayed Chapter. This summer has been insane, can you forgive me my loves? xD Anyways I hope you guys enjoyed this one. And as I've said, this is a little OOC, so I hope you guys don't mind. You know what to do. ;) Love you my darlings!**

**God Bless!**


	7. Meeting Him

Carlisle returned early the next day.

It had been raining for most part of the dawn. The monotonous tapping of rain drops against the tin of the roof.

There was not a soul who liked him in Clementine's abode. The servants all found him strange, calculating, and uncouth. There was something unnerving about his presence.

It was almost hard to believe this man was a Doctor. A profession that nurtures life; a profession that gives life, yet this man barely showed life at all. He was withdrawn, yet irreverent. The way he handled his profession was a travesty to the word Physician.

Yet the most confusing part about him is, the fact that he had great skill, diligence, and devotion to the craft he is practicing. But he had displayed such a remoteness to the people surrounding him, it was infuriating.

He was dedicated, methodical, and yet it almost seemed as if he enjoyed subjugating those around him. Stepping on their egos, personal feelings, and all sense of propriety. Yes he has manners at best, but his manners were aberrant as he is eccentric.

He showed no intimidation to Clementine, like all her servants did.

He wore a impenetrable mask that shielded his true emotions. But despite his eerie abandon, Clementine somehow saw past the mask. He was not so ruthless as he seems to appear. There was a profound feeling of uncertainty, however, when she first saw him. There is, however, something else that ran deeper in him. Disguised with the illusion of unkindness.

Esme's fever was at its height that morning. Sleep was the only thing that kept her mind and body at ease. But somehow, it seemed, that her illness was impervious to the medicine he had prescribed.

He and Clementine were in the sitting room. There was a heavy silence between them; the warm hearth from the fireplace provided some sense of a cheerful warmth.

He sat across from her. His fingers were outlining the floral detail of the brocade armrest. Lightly tugging the threaded pattern.

The silence was far too much for Esme's grandmother.

She took a sip of tea, raising the porcelain cup to her lips. The liquid was already long cold.

"I did not know you purchased Mr. Burckleworth's property next door, Doctor." She said finally, setting down the cup back to its saucer with a soft clink.

"Yes. He was an old acquaintance of my father. I was not informed of his plans of selling it till I returned to London last month."

"You just only returned to London?" Clementine asked as she looked at him. His large figure encased in his seat, a shadow creasing his profile.

"Yes." He replied without glancing at her.

"Where have you been living?"

"Scotland, before that Ireland."

"That's quite far Dr. Cullen." She replied soundly.

"Extremely. But once you are living in such places, it feels like a different time entirely. A world away from a world. When I returned to London, I had no permanent address till Mr. Burckleworth had reached me by telegram, and notified me of his plans." He replied solemnly.

The small talk had no effect on Clementine. It neither calmed her, nor distracted her. The real question was not spoken.

Carlisle sat there and observed the elder lady in front of him. She was old, that much was obvious. The details of time were clearly apparent in her form. Yet if she knew his real age, she'd be flabbergasted. He was a full grown man, yet his youth could not betray the secret it held.

He could see Clementine facing an internal battle within. He knew long before she had spoken what the question was.

"She's not going to die." He said to her, his eyes looking at her fully now.

The tension in her body lightened for a moment.

"There is something else, isn't there Doctor?" She responded, knowing only half the battle was won.

"She has to be very weak, before she could become strong. Its only a matter of time."

"Is there anything else you could give her?" She whispered, feeling powerless. She hated that feeling.

"I already have. Its an unorthodox sort of medication," He said carefully.

"Oh. Might I know the name?"

"I'm sorry. It cannot be revealed. Not many Doctors support it. Its a matter of confidentiality, madam."

"I understand. But it will work?" She said hopefully.

"If her system responds well to it. I will have to monitor her through the night, with your permission." He says with a noncommittal tone, shifting slightly in his seat.

"Of course," She looked at him a moment, his glacial stare meeting hers, "Thank you. Thank you Doctor."

Clementine could not fathom why, but her instinct felt inclined to trust him. This _stranger_. It was completely unethical, but could not be deterred. But still she unconsciously she felt very wary of him.

Esme barely ate through the day. A few bites of bread, then a scarce sips of soup. It was not enough, but it will have to suffice.

The night fell quicker than expected, the storm clouds were at bay. But they still clung to the sky like formidable floating mountains.

It was thirty minutes past twelve.

The whole house had gone into slumber. Clementine remained vigilant till eleven, after that, her old eyes could take no more. She bid the Doctor goodnight, and told him to awaken her if there were any changes.

The night was damp and dreary. The flames from the fireplace in Esme's room was dying down. A cackle could be heard once every few moments.

He was the only one awake at her bedside. He was sitting in front of her in the dim light. His right hand held a golden pocket watch, whilst the other was pressed to a pulse in her wrist. He had to do this every twenty minutes.

He closed the pocket watch and returned it to his pocket, her vital signs were stable. She was reacting well so far. No unpleasant sideffects.

Esme felt herself floating nearer, and nearer to consciousness an hour later. Something had awaken her. She stirred beneath the sheets in her sleep. She could not shake the feeling of someone watching her. Her eyes slowly opened, nothing but the darkness in front of her. She exhaled slowly.

She sensed a slow movement beside her.

"Who's there?" She whispered. Her brows furrowing deeply at the shapeless dark.

He remained silent for a very long time. "No one." Was his reply.

"Who are you?" Said the little girl.

"A voice in your dream, perhaps."

"I can't see dreams." She said. Turning her head to the direction of the voice. Her hands elevating, trying to reach for the figure who spoke to her.

She felt strong fingers touching hers.

She felt a small frission of shock go through her. She examined the hand with her sense of touch. It was definitely masculine, crude, and far larger than hers.

Carlisle watched as the child touched his open hand. Her eyes blinking, staring into empty space. If there was any emotion he had felt, it would be beneath his skin, and ran far deeper into the wellspring of his being.

"Who are you?" She asked once more, holding his thumb with all five of her tiny fingers. He had a strange effect on the child.

"You're grandmother sent for me. You've been ill." He replied quietly. He eyed at her curiously. He knew she could not see him, and so observed her closely. Like an eagle to a young doe. The majority of his patients were adults. He disliked handling children, unless there was no other option available. Yet this certainly was something _different._

"Am I going to die?" She whispered to him once more.

"No."

He watched as her lids slowly started to droop. "Why are you here?" She whispered hazily before giving in to sleep. For a moment it seemed as if she could see him, in a way. But perhaps it was the trick of the light. He sat there as the child fell asleep again, her little fingers clasping his thumb.

He did not answer her.


	8. Two Windows

_"The good in you, I can speak of. _

_But not of the evil. For what is evil but_

_good, twisted by its own hunger and thirst. When good is hungry, it seeks food in dark caves. When evil is thirsty, even of dead waters it drinks."_

_-Khalil Gibran, The Prophet._

Esme was awoken by the sounds of hushed voices outside her bedroom door.

She recognized the voice of the man who was speaking to her grandmother.

_"The worst is over. She is still very weak, though I must warn you that her fever still is quite in a precarious state." Spoke the male voice._

_"Yes, I understand Doctor-" It was Clementine's voice, "How long will it be till the rashes are completely gone?"_

_"About a week or so. And as for her appetite, I do not recommend forcing her to eat. But no matter how small the quantity of food there is in her system, it will have to do, until such a time her inherent eating habits return."_

Outside the corridor...

"Thank you very much, Doctor Cullen. I would have not known what to do, should you not have aided Esme."

She noticed he had turned his head from her.

The man standing in front of Clementine took a sideways glance into the open door of Esme's room.

"I shall see myself out, madam," Carlisle replied, rather nonchalantly at her repeated praises of gratitude. "I believe your granddaughter is awake."

Said the Doctor with a small nod.

Before Clementine could respond, he had already left her side.

She caught a final glimpse of his tall stature in the hallway.

The female servants below waited for him to come down the stairs with a hesitant curiosity.

They were waiting for his presence to glide past their focal point.

All four of them were crammed into the single side opening of the wooden door frame; eager eyes that wanted to catch a glimpse of the strange man that had so suddenly come into their household.

The kitchen door was facing towards the foyer.

The eldest of the maids - Judith, quickly shut the door closed, when his footfalls could be heard descending the staircase. Much to the dismay and disappointment of the younger maids. She decided as newly appointed Parlor maid, that it was not appropriate what they were doing. Certainly if they were caught, provocatively staring at a house guest, Clementine would have their heads.

Not that they meant to stare at him in a lewd manner, no.

It was not that. It was simply because of the way they perceived his reticence.

He spoke very little indeed. But there was a manner in him that almost belonged to a brute, rather than a gentile man, and for them, he could be a ruffian for all they knew. For he was certainly like no Doctor they have ever met, nor seen. He struck a primal curiosity in practically every single personage in Clementine's home.

He seemed - _inhuman._

Almost.

Carlisle crossed the foyer, silent as a cat. He halted for a moment as he stood at the front door, his large hand on the metal handle.

He was peering through the stained glass.

His yellow eyes penetrated even further past the red haze of the mosaic glass.

He could see that the day was heaving with the promise of rain.

He turned the handle and stepped outside, closing the door soundly behind him.

He made his way from Clementine's house, and walked directly back into his home next door. He was thankful for the obvious lack of activity in the nearby town square. He hated pretenses of feigned pleasantries.

People smiling at him in greeting. Their faces expectant, eyes cheerful.

_What a dismal shame, for I have no smile to give them in return._

He stood at the threshold of his home, and opened the door.

Once inside, he twisted the lock and shed his outer coat. He hung the black piece of clothing on a hook in the wall, next to the door and set down his black leather bag.

He glanced at his surroundings. If this were another person's home, surely they would either be mortified or severely doubtful of his mental state at his living conditions. While the house was intelligently decorated, it was terribly unkempt. Several piles of text books were scattered in all corners of the house, seeping their way onto the hallway of the front door.

He bent over and picked up the leather bound reading material, before proceeding to the dimly lighted staircase.

And that was one other thing.

All the windows of the house were heavily draped; sealing whatever rays of sun from entering.

Shunning out the world from entering his.

The air was cold, the silence even colder.

Not even the sound of his steps reassured any living creature residing within the walls of his home that he existed. But he did exist, but not in the manner thought by a mortal, lest by a mouse nor a lizard.

He walked along the dark corridors of his home. There were even no pictures hung on the walls. No cheer, no joy, no memories to give warmth to the walls, and so they stood there bare and empty.

For the memories he had were not tangible by hand, but by mind.

He turned to a corner at the end of the corridor, it was his bedroom.

However, there was no bed.

He converted the master bedroom into his personal study. A fireplace sat at the center of the walls, in between two large oak-wood cases that were filled with over a hundred menagerie of books. To the other side of the room was his desk, decorated with intricate wood carvings, and a matching leather chair. And to the far left corner, was a small piano.

This was the only room where he hung portraits. Here, in the privacy of these four walls.

They were not pictures, but rather, paintings. Several of them, eerily foreboding images of the macabre. Ghosts and gargoyles to haunt dreamers who dared stare at any of his paintings for too long.

Others were abhorrently erotic. Men and women in ecstasy, bearing their breasts and flesh in lustful rapture. It was probably the strangest room in the house. Each painting was definite and unique, and certainly left a heavy impression that is bound to last for several hours.

He should know, he created them. The colors he used were vivid, screaming of silent violence from whatever memories he carried deep within. His technique was precise and filled with vehement purpose. His lines were harsh, but still, despite the livid images he created; there was still some form of beauty hidden beneath the art he made.

The picture he hung over the piano was excluded from the rest. Intentionally isolating it from the others.

It was different, sensual indeed, but different.

He did not make this one however.

He does not even know the name of the artist, only that he prized this one above all the paintings he made himself.

This painting exuded an air of tenderness, of a softness that was absent in his work.

While several of his erotic paintings were more bordering beyond carnal desires, this was more _delicate._

It was a painting of a raven-haired woman lounging on a four poster silk bed. Her naked body positioned almost innocently as she rested her head on her arm; with a translucent cloth that barely covered her bare posterior.

Only the back of her body and head could be seen.

The cream of her complexion, the expanse of her back, and the delicate curve of her bountiful hips was one he affectionately traced a hundred times with his gaze.

But if one peered closer, there is a mirror in front of her. An oval mirror with rosette carvings molded into its frame.

Her reflection could seen. Her beautiful face was serene with slumber; her bare breasts lightly covered by her black hair.

This was the painting he had the most pleasure of looking at. But his pleasure always came with the price of pain.

Whoever this woman was, only he knew the secret to her history.

Carlisle walked across the room. Undoing his tie and the top buttons of his collar with one hand, while the other returned the book into its place in his bookshelf.

He heard faint voices.

He walked over to one of the windows hidden beneath its draperies. He lifted the cloth only in part and glanced straight past the transparent glass.

It seemed that the young girl Esme's bedroom window was directly faced to his.

He looked closer. He could see she was being fed by her grandmother, a spoon was in the old woman's hand, while the other held a white ceramic bowl.

Esme's bedside faced the window. He could see her reddish cheeks, wild hair and blank eyes. She looked like a ghost from one of his paintings, she looked so frail. But somewhere, deep down in whatever semblance of a soul he had - the little girl intrigued him.

For a moment, in a mere second of a heartbeat, it almost seemed as though she had glanced at him yet again. But that was impossible. She cannot see.

He continued to watch her for a few more minutes, till he closed the drapes once more.

Back in her room...

Esme was able to eat a sufficient amount of soup to warm her hungering body. She still felt incredibly feverish, but better.

Her grandmother had told her to lie back down while she would fetch her a glass of warm milk.

Esme did as she was told, still able to taste the vegetable broth in her mouth.

For a few long moments, there was a still solitude.

She was alone in her room. Till, out of nowhere, there was music.

Music beyond the walls of her room.

Though she could not see, her head turned in direction to where the sound was most strongest. Which was the window that was overlooking his.

It was a piano playing. Its melodic notes were distant and dark, as if it belonged to a soul who had been lost for a very long time.

She fell asleep listening to his music.

It seemed so close, so near to her ears. But it was separated by several layers of concrete and space.

Still the melody floated through the barriers of wood and stone, nesting in the very core of her mind as she slept.

**A/N: Pardon again for the delay my loves. I had a busy week this month, and I'm still mourning the fact that the last week of summer is here. Not that I ever had the chance of going out that often this summer, but its probably the smell of the ocean on late afternoons that I'm going to miss most. Anyway, enough of my yammering. You know what to do my darlings! Please r&r, you know it drives me wild. ;) I send you all my love.**

**God Bless!**

**I wanted to use a line from Khalil Gibran's book 'The Prophet' because it was a line that I could not forget. **

**Again, I do NOT own anything. Except for the plot, which I made **_**myself.**_


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